Lampshaded
by Saucery
Summary: Stiles Stilinski does "Aladdin and the Lamp". Derek, by the way, is his genie.
1. Chapter 1

**LAMPSHADED**

**- Part I -**

* * *

><p>So, like, treasure-hunting on Halloween in the abandoned house of weird ex-neighbors that apparently have voodoo symbols on their front door? Not the best idea.<p>

In retrospect, anyway. It had seemed like _the_ best idea, _before_, when all anyone really cared about was a) doing something ridiculous, b) getting drunk and c) necking with the nearest warm body of the opposite sex (not that Stiles is that picky, but, hey, heteronormativity).

But now, with a dented, deformed, flattened kettle _smoking_ in his hands like the proverbial smoking gun, he's not so sure. With a shirtless, massive guy with shoulders out of a gay porn magazine appearing _from_ said smoke? He's even _less_ sure.

Of anything. Including his sanity.

Scott didn't feed him magical mushrooms, did he? Drug him while he was asleep? Perform invasive brain surgery? No, Scott's not smart enough for that. Which isn't the nicest thing he's ever thought about Scott, but, seriously? _Seriously?_

"You're a genie," Stiles hazards, feeling incredulous and sort of incapable of believing the words that are coming out of his own_mouth_. Is this what other people feel like, when they hear him talk?

"I am a djinn," says the massive guy, with a pained expression on his face, like the word 'genie' is a politically incorrect and/or derogatory term. "This is my lamp."

"It's a kettle."

"It. Is a _lamp_," growls the genie - djinn, whatever - and his eyes glow _blue_.

"Right. Yeah. Of course. So, how about a million bucks?"

The djinn _looks_ at him.

"You're supposed to grant me wishes, aren't you? Three wishes?"

"Only one," the djinn says.

"Not three? That _sucks_. Well, anyway, this is my wish. _I wish for a million bucks._ See, my Dad could use help with repaying the mortgage. And paying for my college fees. Um. So," Stiles says, when no duffel bag full of notes falls into his lap, "where's my money?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"I _made a wish_! And you're my genie! I rubbed the dented non-kettle that is your place of residence! That means you're my genie, doesn't it?"

"Djinn. I am your djinn, Master. My name is D'req."

"Hi, Derek."

"D'req."

"I'm romanizing your name! You know what they say; hold not onto the past. Move with the times. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Et cetera."

"My name," says the djinn, slowly, "is _D'req_."

Are - are those _fangs_? Are genies even _supposed_ to grow fangs? Anger-fangs? Because they obviously aren't a permanent fixture. "You're not… some nightmare beast, are you? Some brain-eating manatee of the deep?"

"No," D'req says, and the fangs retract. "I apologize, Master."

"You - " Wow, Stiles hadn't thought this was the sort of guy who _could_ apologize. Unless it's hard-coded into him, or something, like the whole 'Master' thing, which would frankly be giving Stiles a hard-on in another context, but right now is just plain freaky. Since the guy obviously doesn't respect him, at all; he might as well be calling Stiles 'dog'. Possibly, 'tiny, toothless, powerless dog'. "Don't apologize unless you mean it."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"That is how the wishes work," D'req explains. "Only your heart's wishes that can be granted. It is not the djinn that supplies the power for the granting of the wish; it is the human heart."

"What's _your_ job, then?"

"To channel that power. And to feed off a portion of it, in order to sustain ourselves."

"So you're a parasite?"

D'req draws himself up to his full height. Which, given the fact that his head's literally brushing the _ceiling_, he doesn't have to do. "I," says D'req, voice low and growly again, "am a djinn."

"Uh-huh. And you're telling me that I _don't_ want a million dollars? 'Cause I'm telling you, I want a million dollars. I really, really want a million dollars. And for Lydia to go to the prom with me. I want that, too."

"No," D'req says. "You do not."

"Okay, the money thing, I can sort of get; maybe I'm not _desperate_ for it. But if you're trying to tell me that I don't want _Lydia_? You're batshit insane, man."

"If you truly wanted those things - "

"Lydia isn't a _thing_ - "

"I would have already granted your wishes. I would have been unable not to."

"Dude. _Dude_. Does _anyone_ ever get their wishes granted?"

"Yes," says D'req, and a strange _ache_ seems to make him pause. He looks at the house around him, as if seeing it for the first time. "This is the Hale house."

"Yeah." Wow, so _this_ is interesting. "They all died in a fire about ten years ago. I was just a little kid. You knew them?"

"They were my owners."

"They - why didn't you save them? Didn't you _want_ to?"

D'req's face _darkens_. "I wanted to. I - " He breathes, and his expression clears, returning to what he probably thinks is his Professional Standard Jeeves Face. "Most people never find out what their heart truly wishes for; they can never make a wish that can be granted. They can live and die while in the possession of a lamp, and yet never claim a single wish."

"That - are you _serious_? Why do they even hang onto the lamp, then?"

"To pass it on," says D'req. "To their children, and to their children's children, in the hopes that one day, someone will be able to make a wish that comes from the heart, and will win riches and prosperity for the family - riches beyond compare." A strange, bitter smile twists D'req's face. "It can take centuries."

Stiles… Stiles is sort of starting to get the picture, now.

"How long were you with the Hales?"

"Three hundred and forty-seven years."

Shit. _Shit_. "They were your _family_."

"Yes. Yes, you could say that. I watched over them for generations. Watched them marry, grow old and die. I played with their children. I - " D'req looks away. "I… wanted to grant their wishes."

"But you couldn't."

"No. Not until they made a wish worthy of being granted."

"And they - _all_ of them - they died." Jesus. _Jesus_. Stiles remembers losing his _Mom_, even though he was only a kid when it happened. He can't even imagine living with people for _centuries_ and then losing all of them, _all_ of them, in one fell swoop… Not to mention caring about people, only to see them die before _him_. Over, and over, and over again. No _wonder_ D'req is so broody.

"Yes." D'req's voice is _quiet_. "They all died."

"How?"

"A boy was finally born," says D'req, "who could make a wish."

"And?"

"He made it."

Stiles _stares_.

He just - he _stares_, because -

What?

_What?_

"He… wished for his family to be dead?"

"No. He wished for powers. Special powers. Powers that made him as powerful as a wolf, as sharp-eyed and sharp-eared and as menacing. I granted his wish, because I had to."

"And he - did he hurt his own family?"

"Yes," says D'req, and that bitter smile is on his face, again. "And no. Not directly. But the path he took, as he became a man, drew the attention of those that thought him unholy. Those that thought themselves righteous warriors, hunters of demons and devils."

Oh. Oh, _crap_.

"They hunted him down - and one night, in a fit of terror and fury, they set fire to this house, believing every resident to be similarly deformed."

"I - "

"I could not intervene, for I cannot effect the corporeal world unless it is under the command of my masters, and my masters - were in no state. To give commands. Most of them died before they awoke from their slumber, and the rest…" D'req _shudders_. "It took an hour," he rasps, "for the last of the screams to die out."

Fuck.

"His name," says D'req, "was Peter. He was - his name was Peter."

"How old was he?"

"Fifteen, when I first granted his wish. Thirty-nine, when he died."

"You realize it wasn't your fault, right?" What is Stiles even _saying_? But has to say it, _anyway_, even if he isn't a certified grief counselor for supernatural beings. "It wasn't your fault. You're practically - I don't want say you're a _slave_, but - "

"I am a slave," D'req says. "Master."

Stiles… catches his breath. _Now_, D'req means it. He means it, and - and now that he does, Stiles doesn't _want_ him to, at all. "Y-yeah. You - you _had_ to grant his wish. He - "

"But if I had not come into their family, they would have survived."

"You can't know that for sure."

"I can know it," D'req closes his eyes, "nonetheless."

"All right." Stiles swallows. "All right. I - do you want me to - set you free?"

D'req's eyes snap open. "What?"

"I mean, you. You can't. You can't keep being responsible for other people's stupid choices. Can't I set you _free_? Trash your lamp, or something? Perform a Satanic ritual? Sacrifice my virginity to a goat-god? A, um, completely metaphorical goat-god, because I wouldn't _really_ whore myself out - uh. _Something?_"

"You could wish for it," says D'req. "But then, you would have to mean it."

"Uh-huh. And apparently, I don't mean any of the things I'd _thought_ I meant, including wanting Lydia and enough money to get my Dad and I out of _debt_, so - I probably won't mean this."

"You can try."

"Do you - do you _want_ to be free?"

"You are asking me," says D'req, "what I wish." He looks pole-axed. Like, literally pole-axed, like someone's just hit him over the head.

"Heh. Kind of weird, isn't it? Asking a gen - uh, djinn. What he wishes for. But, seriously. _Do_ you want to be free?"

"I - " D'req stops. Shakes his head. Starts again. "I… do not know."

"Yeah? Well, now you know how _we_ feel. 'S why we make sucky wishes even when we _can_ make them. Most of the time, we don't even know what we _want_. But you - why _would_ you want to stay a djinn?"

"It is how I have always been," murmurs D'req. "And… it was pleasant. Being bound to a family. Being - being with them."

Whoa. Big Ol' Genie's a _softie_. Never would've pegged him for one, with the shoulders and the jawline and the ferocious, downright _carnivorous_ face. But apparently, that's what he is.

And he's Stiles's.

He's - he's Stiles's.

"Yeah," says Stiles. "I - I get that. I do. I… Family is important, right?"

"Family," says the djinn, "is everything."

Stiles thinks of his Dad. Of Scott. Of - of Mom, and the way she'd smelled of washing powder and typewriter ink when she'd hugged him goodnight. "Yeah," Stiles whispers, holding the lamp close. "Yeah."

"You can leave me here."

"What?"

"If you - if you wish to avoid disaster. You have heard what the result was, of the last wish I granted."

"You… D'you think I'm scared of making a _wish_? Because, if that's what you're thinking, I'm not. I _trust_ myself, okay? I'm not going to wish for something crazy and dangerous like _growing fangs and fur_, what the hell? And even if I _was_ scared of making wishes, I - I still wouldn't leave you here. Alone." Stiles wave a vague hand around him. "In this empty house."

"I do not notice the time passing whilst I am in my lamp. I will simply wait for the next person to pick me up."

"And if no one ever does?"

D'req is silent.

"Are you trying to commit _suicide by lamp_? Because if you aren't aware of time passing, in there, then isn't it like - nothing happening? Being unconscious? Which means that never waking up is as good as… being dead."

"Yes," says D'req. "It would be."

"And you expect me to _leave you for dead_?"

D'req blinks. "I…"

"Goddammit, you're an idiot. An immortal idiot, but still." Stiles dusts off his jeans, clutching the lamp even tighter. "You're coming with me. Comprende? End of discussion."

"But - "

"And who knows, maybe I'll wish for world peace and rainbows and unicorns and fluffy kittens, and maybe I'll _mean_ it, and then the wish you grant? Will be the greatest wish _ever_."

D'req looks disbelieving.

"Oh, shut up."

"I did not say anything."

"You were _thinking_ it." Stiles heads out of the door. "Just - stay hidden when we get back to the campfire, got it? I'm probably the last one to finish the treasure hunt, so I'm gonna get my ass mocked, but you just - stay put. In your lamp. Only come out when we're at home."

"Yes, Master."

A couple of seconds pass.

"Yo, Sourdjinn," calls Stiles, when it appears that D'req hasn't, actually, followed him. He turns around; D'req's just _floating_ there, in his cloud of scentless smoke, looking kind of stunned. "You coming, or not?"

"Yes, Master," says the djinn, and follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**LAMPSHADED**

**- Part II -**

* * *

><p>The mortal world is bright-lit and vast. Dark-shadowed and small. It is all things, and all of them contradictory. D'req has always found himself out of step with it, or ill at ease, as one might be in a poorly-fitted garment. And yet his new master is entirely in his element, even more so than most humans are, and there is something in him that resembles a young animal or a child or a prophet - something unthinking and generous and sweet. The days spent with him have been some of the kindest that D'req has ever experienced, even after his centuries-long adoption by the Hales.<p>

It is another morning in the Stilinski household. Morning means lightness; a certain transparency to the air, a quietness that settles like sleep beneath the lids of the world. Everything is on the brink of waking. Including his human, nestled warm in his bed, bundled like a silkworm. His skin, D'req imagines, would be smooth as silk.

"Stiles!" calls a voice from downstairs; it is the boy's father. D'req has found him to be a man of integrity and compassion, not unlike his son, although there is a darkness in him that comes from the loss of his wife, many years ago, and often drives him to drink.

Stiles barely stirs.

"_Stiles!_ Wake up!"

"Mmrrrgh," says Stiles, and falls out of bed. The thump of his fall reverberates through the floor, and is apparently the signal for Mr. Stilinski to start making breakfast. The scent of frying eggs wafts upwards.

D'req follows, silent-footed and invisible, as Stiles pads to his bathing-room. The boy relieves himself; brushes his teeth; stares at himself in the mirror; rubs his eyes; has a shower.

He is lithe and small, like a little fish. His body glistens.

"Hey," says Stiles, upon reentering his bedroom. He quickly clothes himself, but his shirt clings to him; his skin is still damp, for he never dries himself sufficiently. "Mighty djinn of the starless skies! Awake!"

D'req does not stir.

Stiles mutters, picks up the lamp - still dented, but cleaner - and rubs it. "C'mon," he says. "I'm gonna be late for school, and you told me to wake you up before I go!"

D'req makes himself visible.

"Whoa - why're you over _there_?"

"I may appear wherever I choose, so long as it is within the same room as the lamp."

Stiles tilts his head. "Huh." He shrugs. "Okay."

Stiles is, in fact, of the firm and entirely pedestrian belief that D'req is incapable of manifesting himself until his lamp is rubbed. The truth is that, once claimed by a master, it is to the master that the djinn is bound, not to the lamp. The lamp is merely a resting-place, a conduit, a container. It is not a cage.

D'req enjoys considerable freedom, not least because Stiles makes that freedom so enjoyable. And if Stiles believes that D'req is incapable of following him without the lamp… Well. D'req has yet to disabuse him of that notion.

Perhaps it is the loss of the Hales that has made D'req so uncommonly attached, or filled him with a _need_ to be attached. He had followed the Hale family for centuries, generation after generation, from their humble beginnings on a farmstead in England to their journey across the Americas, and had never lacked for sympathetic company, be it from Laura and her lute or young Peter, in all his folly. True, they had all wanted something from him - who didn't? - but they had treated him as one of their own, nonetheless.

D'req… needs to be part of that, again. Part of _something_ like that. Stiles is baffling because, other than that first attempt at a wish, he seems to have forgotten that D'req _is_ a djinn, capable of granting wishes. For the first time in his existence, D'req has a master that does not - seem to want anything from him.

It is…

He cannot decide whether it is unpleasant, unmooring or simply unexpected.

All he knows is that it _compels_ him to follow Stiles, to be close to him at all times, as though proximity will somehow create in Stiles the need that D'req's other masters had had for him. _Of_ him.

It is a foolish and very human sentiment, and yet D'req cannot expunge it.

"So," says Stiles, slinging his schoolbag onto one shoulder. "Um. I'm - I'm sorry I've gotta leave you here, like this, and I know I keep apologizing for it everyday and you probably think I'm an asshole, _anyway_, but - I'm sorry? I wish I could take the lamp with me, but I can't have Coach or someone finding it and confiscating it or chucking it in the trash, or whatever."

"I understand."

"Uh-huh. You say _that_ everyday, too. But, like, you know. There's the computer. That I've taught you how to use. And there're the books. You need any more?"

"I would appreciate books on the history of Persia."

"That where you come from?"

"Yes."

"Cool. _Cool_. Which means, like, I can ask you about ancient empires that no longer even _exist_? Uh - sorry. I - sorry. I didn't mean to remind you - "

"Master," says D'req, wondering again at Stiles's uncommon consideration. And his strange propensity to apologize, even for things that are not within his control. "I have known for many, many generations that the Persian empire no longer exists."

"Right." The boy nods. "_Right_. I - I'll get those books, then. The librarian's seriously making eyes at me, you know that? I think she thinks I'm some sort of closet genius, or something. She's really old, so there's this whole bad-touch thing going on whenever she _pats my hand_, which happens a lot more than is strictly _necessary_, but - er. Never mind."

"Do not put yourself in danger."

"In - " Stiles gapes. "Uh, _no_, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Brewer isn't _actually_ going to rip off my pants. Relax. Also, even if she _did_ rip off my pants, I have it on good authority that I have a really girly shriek that could shatter glass and call the armies of heaven down from the firmament to rescue me."

D'req _frowns_. "Whose authority?"

"Um. Don't. Don't worry about it?"

"_Whose_."

"Okay, whoa, don't do that fangy thing."

"Someone made you scream."

"Eh-heh. Er. Yeah? That was just a really stupid prank Scott pulled last Halloween, though. To which I had a really stupid reaction. Story of my life, really. Story of my _Halloweens_. Remember what happened _this_ Halloween?"

D'req… cannot deny the fact that Stiles may have shrieked, a little, when D'req first manifested himself from the lamp.

"Yep. That. We're _never_ talking about that again, by the way. I had a totally manly response to your sudden and terrifying appearance in a supposedly haunted house. _Very manly_."

"Your manliness was unmatched," D'req drawls, and Stiles beams at him.

"_There's_ my deadpan and insincere genie!"

"Djinn."

"Listen, I…" Stiles stares down at his feet. Adjusts his bag. "I feel bad, leaving you all alone, in here."

"I do not mind."

"Yeah, but you _should_. You're a _person_, and you're practically under house arrest…" Stiles clears his throat. "Tell you what. This weekend? I'm taking you out. Um. That sounded like a da - uh, I mean, I'm taking you out in a completely platonic way, to, um, a field, or something. Maybe the lacrosse field? You can watch me and Scott practicing. We're lame, but we're still better than watching paint dry, right?"

"I would think so."

"Great! Great. It's a da - um. It's an… arrangement. A completely unromantic arrangement." Stiles looks up at him, eyes shy and hopeful. "I'll see you when I get back from school?"

"You most certainly will," says D'req, still not disclosing the fact that he can, and _will_, be following Stiles. All day. At school, and at the 'diner' he will no doubt visit later, with his friends. "Now, go. Or your father will not be pleased."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "My _Dad_ is never - "

"STILES!" shouts Mr. Stilinski, from downstairs. Breakfast is, evidently, ready. "YOU'LL BE LATE!"

D'req raises an eyebrow.

"Point." Stiles sighs. "Uh. Bye?"

"Fare thee well," says D'req, and waits until Stiles is past the door before dissipating, reducing himself to merest air, and following.

It is not a lie, he tells himself, to withhold the truth.


End file.
